Weeping willows cry green tears of joy,
dripping into the silver creek,
for spring.
Fair forests are wrapped in ethereal emerald gauze,
dressed for an evening dance
with spring.

What is this naive colour,
defying old man winter’s mothballs,
rippling secret laughter through sleepy forests
racing to the horizon to catch up with the sun?

This is green,
green so new God must have thought it up only moments ago.


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